Breakfast
by Confiscated Retina
Summary: Having become accustomed to strange, mostly terrible foodstuffs for breakfast, it took Kenny by complete surprise the day Kyle Broflovski slipped an apple into his hand while they boarded the bus. One shot.


**A/N:** This fic was inspired by another fic, "Spare Me Your Pity" by Courtanie. I fully admit that I nicked several ideas from it for this (most notably the food theme and the jar of coins). Many thanks to Courtanie for the inspiration and to all of you wonderful readers who've been leaving such sweet reviews. :)

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**Breakfast**

It was a well documented fact that Kenny McCormick would eat almost anything. In second grade he swallowed three pennies and a nickel on a dare. Later that summer he ate half a can of wet cat food just to prove he would. It was even rumored that he'd been hospitalized with food poisoning once after taking a bite off a moldy bagel in exchange for twenty dollars (if asked, Eric Cartman would swear it was one of the best things he'd ever bought for the price).

It wasn't that Kenny's parents didn't love him, because they did. Time and resources just weren't always available. Breakfast was a luxury he rarely enjoyed. Thus, school lunch was usually his first meal of the day unless someone gave him something beforehand. Not a picky eater by nature, he quickly acquired a knack for eating any bizarre food item unwanted from countless bagged lunches. The food, no matter how strange, eased the hunger pangs and any other ingested items won him some measure of respect from his peers.

Having become accustomed to strange, mostly terrible foodstuffs for breakfast, it took Kenny by complete surprise the day Kyle Broflovski slipped an apple into his hand while they boarded the bus. He stared alternately at it and the back of Kyle's green hat in quiet contemplation. The other boy hadn't said a word to him, sitting down next to Stan Marsh and continuing a conversation about dog farts as if nothing unusual had happened. Kenny ate the apple and tried to puzzle out what had just occurred.

When lunch came around, certain he'd figured it out, Kenny passed Kyle the glop of pudding on his tray in thanks.

"Nah. You keep it, dude," Kyle said.

Mystified, Kenny pulled back the tray and ate the pudding.

Small bits of food began to find their way into his hands most school days after that. A piece of toast here, some fruit or granola there. Once, Kyle even gave him a strawberry Pop Tart. It tasted like heaven. And no matter how often Kenny tried to trade the best part of his lunch to thank him, Kyle always politely refused.

So it went for weeks, months. Kyle gave Kenny breakfast and refused any sort of trade or thanks. Kenny wanted desperately to make it up to him but could never think of any way that Kyle couldn't politely brush aside.

When the accident happened, nobody knew how to take it, least of all Kenny. The bus stop was lonely all that week with just Eric talking into the silence. Any response Kenny might have made to him was swallowed up with worry.

His brother took him to visit Stan in the hospital that weekend but neither had much to say. The rumors that had been circulating throughout the school about Kyle's condition seemed all the more valid when nobody was allowed to see him. Even Stan didn't know what had become of his best friend.

A week later, it was Stan returning alone to the classroom, a cast on one arm and yellowing bruises on his face, that confirmed the worst. It wasn't addressed publicly to the school, but Mr. Mackey quietly offered time in his office to any student who needed it, especially those who had been closest to Kyle. Stan was oft to be seen leaving that office in the weeks to follow. Kenny could never bring himself to speak to anyone about it.

Two days after Kyle's funeral, Kenny was hit by a bus. He asked at Heaven's gates if anyone had seen his lost friend before he was inexorably called away. Three weeks after that, when he was the only casualty in a football riot in Boulder, he searched Hell with no success. The world moved on, dragging him with it and taking them all farther away from Kyle's memory.

A month after the funeral, the Broflovski's began to pack their things. Kenny saw the boxes through the living room window as he passed, looking up out of habit to see if Kyle might be at his window this time. Before he could pass the house, Mrs. Broflovski opened the door and called his name. She was ragged, eyes red and swollen with the kind of grief only a mother could know.

"Before we leave," she said, "Kyle left something for you."

Kenny blinked in surprise. Tears were welling up in Mrs. Broflovski's eyes as she passed him a heavy box. He thanked her somberly and continued on his way, the box in his arms not nearly as heavy as his heart.

He left it unopened under his bed for days. Every time he'd work up the nerve to open it, a memory would surface or an echo of Kyle's voice would urge him to slide it back under the bed. At last, after another fruitless search of the afterlife, he opened the box to find a large jar filled to the brim with loose change. The tape on the side read, in Kyle's handwriting: "to: Kenny, for: breakfast".

Only then did Kenny cry. It was a soft sound, the sort that couldn't be heard through thin walls. After a while, the jar grown cold against his forehead, Kenny sat up and knew exactly how he wanted to thank Kyle, late though that thanks would be. He slid the jar unopened back under his bed.

It wasn't easy and it took the better part of two days, but he managed to gather together enough spare change outside of the jar to buy a candy bar (it was important that he earn this money himself). When school let out, he and Stan walked to the gas station in an easy silence and Stan helped him pick out the right candy bar, the biggest one they had. While the other boy wasn't looking, Kenny picked out one more, not so big; he wasn't very hungry.

Together they made their way to the cemetery. The fake flowers and the epitaph below Kyle's name were covered in snow. Kenny brushed away a spot right in the middle and laid the big candy bar there. He and Stan watched it for a few moments, wind rustling through the pines in lieu of conversation. As they walked out of the cemetery, Kenny pulled the other candy bar out of his pocket and handed it to Stan without a word. A tiny smile flickered on Stan's face, the first Kenny had seen in a long time.

As they walked, Kenny hesitantly told Stan about his dream for the future, the first one he'd ever had. He wanted to learn how to cook and, someday, open a restaurant. It would be the best place in town to come for breakfast in the mornings and, if anyone was too poor to buy food, they could eat for free. Especially if they were kids. And he would name it "Kyle's".

Pausing to pick snow out of his eye, Stan thought it was a good idea, the sort of thing Kyle would do.

In the darkening sky above, the wind blew and, for an instant, it sounded almost like a voice whispering thanks.

**END.**


End file.
